


Portions for Foxes

by purplevanity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplevanity/pseuds/purplevanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon/Arya, post ADWD, for the kink meme.</p><p>It turns out that history does not always repeat itself. Maybe the second time around the strong-willed wolf maid will refuse to go with the silver-haired dragon prince, while Winterfell might not always go to a somber, long-faced lord who will grow to love a sweet, Tully-colored lady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. blood in my mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lady Sansa, you're drunk." His voice cracks. It is all he can say.

"You do look like Prince Rhaegar."

He looks at her across the table; the candlelight gives her a long, haunted look, shadows dancing across the dips in her faces and the swoop of her neck. It makes her look older, and sadder.  _She has been sad for so long_.  


"There was a portrait of the royal family," she continues, "In the storage rooms of Winterfell. Father had it taken down after the Sack, but I found it when Bran and I were rebuilding. Princess Elia was so beautiful." She sighs wistfully and continues sipping at her wine. "I idolized her, you know. It was my dream to be married to the prince, to have sweet babes. Father told me of their wedding. She was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

"I knew what happened to her, of course. I just chose not to care. Being the wife of a queen seemed to wipe away everything. Arya cared, though." Sansa let that comment hang. "She said I was foolish."

He doesn't quite know what to say, thinks of Arya, beautiful, strong-willed Arya.  _I could have given her everything, but she thought it all foolish_. Lady Lyanna had been beautiful, and the realm had bled for it. Arya knew it. They both did. "You have her smile, though." Sansa's looking at him again, her eyes bloodshot from the wine. "She had a pretty smile." A pause. Neither of them move.

"In the end, I just wanted to go home. I realized Arya was right - not in all parts, Seven, we were _children_. But she knew King's Landing was not all it was held up to be, and in the end I just wanted my mother back. And I couldn't even have that, and when I saw Jon again..."

"Lady Sansa, you're drunk." His voice cracks. It is all he can say.

She makes no motion to leave the table, instead shrinking further in her seat. It is a sad picture, the pretty girl illuminated by candles.  _She is younger than me, and has seen more besides._

"You know what Jon said when we saw each other again?" Sansa says, and her voice is higher, thinner. " _You look so much like Lady Catelyn_. It stung; my lady mother, bless her, did not treat him too well. I suppose it was justified, her treatment, but it weighed heavily on him. 

"I loved him," she continues bitterly. "He was everything I wanted - Winterfell. The North. My father. My brothers. I wanted him to stay, especially after Bran left again. I told him I did not want to rule Winterfell by myself while Rickon grew up, not even until he did. I could not do it; I was  _five-and-ten_! I needed someone like him with me - someone strong, dependable, trustworthy - " hiccup - "He didn't love me back, of course. I treated him cruelly as a child; I think I looked too much like my mother for him to really forgive me." Her face is somber, longer, angry (maybe at herself, maybe at Jon), and for a second he sees Arya.  

"I told him we could be Father and Mother again, rule the North together - " A pause. "It was foolish of me. He told me _I passed up Winterfell for you, Sansa._  All I wanted was someone by my side, and he left me for Arya. They love each other, they always did - when we were younger it was always the two of them, and me and Robb. I loved Robb, I did, the four of us made a pretty picture, they were Stark-colored while Robb and I were Tullys but - I did not love him to that extent." She says it as if she's still trying to believe it. "In the end, I suppose everyone had always loved her best."

He wants to interject, tell her how much he wanted Arya to love him, too. Arya was beautiful and feisty and strong, as he had thought he himself was. He'd thought it was a way to subvert history's expectations, that perhaps loving her was a way to tie himself to his father. But she'd up and loved his brother instead.

But he can't tell Sansa any of that, so he just tells her, "Let me escort you to your chambers." She doesn't protest when he takes her arm, and they walk in companionable silence to her chambers, letting the ghosts of their loved ones crawl over them.

"Thank you," is all she says before she shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the kink meme, the prompt being "Future (post ADwD), AU, R+L=J. 
> 
> More than a few believed the young Targaryen king and the youngest Stark girl would be Rhaegar and Lyanna come again. While knowledge of his parentage had come to be well known, equally as many thought that just as Jon Snow (Targaryen) and Sansa Stark resembled Eddard and Catelyn Stark, they would live out a tale that mirrored the lord and lady’s happiest years. As it turned out, Arya did not act as Lyanna had in spite of Aegon’s efforts to win her over, and Jon did not walk down the path that would have been so similar to Eddard’s, for all that Sansa had wished for that. 
> 
> In the end, Jon and Arya drove back the shadows reflected in each others’ eyes, gradually healed each other’s wounds and in doing so, wrote their own story."
> 
> I know it's common fanon (at least in these parts of the Internet) that Sansa breaks free of Petyr's clutches, pwns everybody, and gets her hands on Winterfell all before the age of twenty. While it's certainly possible, she's still very young and unprepared to rule. Most characters in ASOIAF are, no matter who they receive Politics 101 lessons from.
> 
> To be a multichapter fic. Yay.


	2. i've been biting my tongue all week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But still,” she adds. “Well met…cousin.” She forces herself to say the last word; she’s spent so long thinking of him as her brother that it is difficult to think of him as anything else.

Sansa weeps when Bran leaves, hugs her little brother as if she was never seeing him again. “Won’t you stay?” she pleads, touching his cheek. “Brandon, you could stay. You could be Lord of Winterfell. Be with _us_.”

Bran looks at her then, _really_ looks at her.  “Bran,” Sansa says again.

But he says, “Sansa, my sweet sister. I know of all the love you bear me, but the Children need me more. You’ll be an excellent Lady, Sansa. I know.” His lips quirk up in a smile; and in that moment he looks very much like Robb. “I’ve seen it.”

“Rickon,” Sansa had murmurs. “Do you know where he is?”

Bran’s eyes cloud over. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Rickon will find his way home in his own time.”

Sansa weeps, but Arya doesn’t.

She and Jon stand back, unsure of what to say. They love Bran as much as Sansa does – perhaps more – but Arya does not know what to say to her younger brother, who now has eyes lined with history and feet lined with earth.

“I will miss you,” is all she says instead, and Bran just smiles widely at her and for a moment he is eight again.

“And you, Arya. Jon. Goodbye.”

Summer, Nymeria and Ghost touch noses. Meera Reed hugs Sansa and bows low to Arya and Jon before scampering off after Bran, promising to care for him as best as she could.

Arya and her siblings stare after her.

“Didn’t she have a brother?” Jon asks.

“She did,” Sansa says shortly. “Jojen. She lost him, too.” With that she had turned around and departed for the Main Hall, leaving Arya and Jon in the courtyard.

Silence hanging over them, Arya offers, “She’s upset.”

“Yes,” says Jon.

More silence.

“She loved Bran,” Arya adds.

“She did.”

“You did, too,” says Arya.

Jon looks at you. “As did you.”

“But Sansa–” Arya stops and realizes she did not know what to say of her beautiful sister. Sansa and Bran – they had always been close, when Robb and Jon and Arya were off playing at swords it was Bran who would hum _Florian and Jonquil_ to her, Bran who would steal lemoncakes from the kitchen with her, Bran who was so much like her, sweet and kind and gentle. Bran, who, like her, did not want to rule, did not have the heart for the brutality of leadership.

 _But Sansa’s a survivor, like me_ , a voice in Arya’s head persists. _She’s been with Baelish and Queen Cersei and all the rest, she’s_ learned _from them_. _She can do it_.

Later, Arya finds her sister asleep in her chambers, a half-full flagon of wine on the table next to her bed, and realizes, _but she doesn’t want to._

* * *

 

The smallfolk paint a pretty image of her sister. They sing of the Young Wolf’s beautiful sister, who had her older brother’s fiery hair and gentle smile and the same steel in her eyes, who bore down on Ramsay Bolton’s forces with the power of the Eyrie, Riverrun, and the Red Keep – Winterfell had burned and bled red and black and grey and white, and finally the direwolf of Stark once again flew on its parapets. In their eyes, Sansa Stark is young – barely older than Robb was when he took the throne – but cold, powerful, and formidable.

 _Her father’s daughter_ , they say. _Our Queen of Winter._

They do not speak of Arya, though she restlessly paces behind her sister, her gray eyes darting left and right. _I will not leave her like I did once._

She is sure Sansa feels the same.

* * *

 

She does not like the new master-of-arms, but she supposes he does his duty well enough. Queen Daenerys had gifted Winterfell with prodigious supplies of Valyrian steel and dragonglass, and Arya loves the feel of her new sword – a _proper_ one, Daenerys had said brightly – in her hand, it is bright and warm and _alive_ , and there is no greater thrill than when she swings it, laughing and playing at swords with the new trainees in the courtyard.

Today, however, she is up before the sun, takes Needle, and goes to the godswood.

She had never been particularly partial to the godswood in her childhood, never having the patience to sit and absorb its calm. She preferred the wind of horseback riding and the thrill of playing at swords, the thought that _this is all I would like to do_.

It hurts to think of the little girl she was, sometimes.

Now she loves nothing more than the sound of the wind in the trees and the trickle of water in the stream, sounds that, after everything, whisper love and peace and quiet and _home_. Silently, she thinks of praying to Bran, and laughs it off. She loves her brother, but she has known too many gods.

Arya holds Needle in the air. The blade gleams in the pale sunlight; the tip is sharp. _Such a small sword_ , she thinks, _a small, clean sword that has killed too many. I have killed too many_. She hasn’t touched Needle in weeks.

Tentatively, she swings at thin air, and her heart warms and her fingers curl around the hilt in a way they’re used to. A smile finds its way onto her face, and then she’s swinging and parrying and stepping away, dancing a dance that was meant for two.

There’s a crunch behind her, the unmistakable sound of boots on leaves, and suddenly her dance is ended and she whirls around, Needle in hand.

“Jon,” she says in relief, and he’s leaning against a tree, a bemused smile on his face. She still isn’t used to saying his name out loud, to actually have someone to say it _to._ Sometimes it is hard to remember that she is _home_ , surrounded by people she loves.

“You’ve gotten better,” he says, as if she doesn’t know that.

“How can you say that when I wasn’t even fighting anybody?” she shoots back, but she’s smiling.

“Is that a challenge?” Jon almost laughs.

“It might be,” says Arya.

“Then, Arya Stark, I hereby challenge you to a duel.”

“Then I shall accept your challenge, Jon – ” An uncomfortable pause; she is unsure what to call him. “Jon Snow.”

He doesn’t seem unfazed, and charges at her. She dodges his blow easily, swings her blade forward. He parries easily and his sword is heavier than hers, but she keeps a hold on her sword and a clear mind, and suddenly she has the advantage – but only for a few seconds, because Jon is still far better than she is, and ten seconds later he’s on the offensive again. Longclaw rang against Needle as the sound of their shrieks hung above the godswood.

 _He isn’t used to my style, he hasn’t learned Bravoosi fencing_ , she realizes, channeling Syrio. _Swift as a wolverine_. She’s fighting on her toes, now, spinning circles around him. He swings, but Arya foresees where the sword is going. Suddenly she’s on his other side, forcing him backwards – and he stumbles over a rock and into the river, landing with a resounding splash.

“Fantastic,” Jon wheezes, unable to restrain his laughter. “Absolutely fantastic.”

“Not so,” says Arya. “I’ve fought better.” She takes his hand and helps him up. “But still,” she adds. “Well met…cousin.” She forces herself to say the last word; she’s spent so long thinking of him as her brother that it is difficult to think of him as anything else.

Jon’s eyes darken briefly, and he withdraws his hand. She supposes he feels the same.

“You must try and teach me that,” he says. “Bravoosi fencing, I mean.”

“It’s not so hard,” Arya finds herself saying easily. Pride came so easily to their family.

“Then it shouldn’t be difficult to teach,” he says. “Little sister.”

* * *

 

Sansa fusses over Jon when they return to the castle, forcing him to change clothes, seating him next to the fire and bringing him towels and warm drinks. “It doesn’t do to get colds,” she sniffs. “They could be the death of you.”

“Sansa, I’ve fought worse,” Jon says, and he shares a knowing smile with Arya. Sansa stiffens;  Arya knows she spent much of the last years hidden away in keeps, sheltered from fighting. And yet Arya knows her sister has seen much more than is initially obvious. “And winter has come.”

In the firelight, Jon’s face and voice reminds Arya so much of her father that it makes her heart hurt. She looks over at Sansa, who looks down. _She looks like mother_ , Arya realizes, and she cannot help but look back and forth between her siblings, biting her lip. It is difficult to pretend everything is as it was. Not when all of you were forced to grow up too fast.

Her sister’s face doesn’t change as she announces, “A raven came today. From King’s Landing.”

Jon noticeably perks up at that news. “From Dany and Aegon?” he says uncertainly.

“Yes,” says Sansa, and her lips curl a little upward. “It appears they’re coming for a visit.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the late update, life and general lack of a muse happens. But thank you for putting up with this story so far, I promise the next update won't take so long.
> 
> We won't be seeing the last of Bran, don't worry.


	3. baby, i'm bad news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Arya, had she not staunchly refused to dance with him, would have held his hand firmly, would have led, would have looked him in the eye, would have twirled herself around with such fire and dignity. But Sansa smiles prettily and bows daintily and ghosts her fingers over his hands, follows his lead around the dance floor. He wonders how it was her who came to rule, this softer, more pliant older sister. "

The first time he meets Arya Stark is on a battlefield.

Steel rings against steel and the air smells of blood and fire and death, and he is in the middle of it all, swatting his sword left and right. He has never felt more a child than during that first battle, has never felt so helpless as his men died around him. Griff – no, Jon – is nowhere near him as he usually is, sword at the ready, and Duck is off protecting him. For the first time, he is alone and truly scared.

Suddenly there is a man, large and brutal, who looks like he could snap him into two at any moment _lunging_ at him, and he closes his eyes, prepares to shield himself –

–and the man collapses before him as she materializes in front of him, her hair whipping about in the wind and her gray eyes wide.

“Close call, that, Aegon,” she breathes, as if she’s not really seeing him, as if there isn’t a slashed throat painting the ground red in front of her. “Aegon,” she says again, as if to make herself believe.

He sees her fight, sees her lithe form flash about the battlefield striking down men everywhere. She is so quick and her sword is tinged with red; it astounds him how she is everything the battle is – cold and swift deadly. Winter.

Later that night, he is in the main tent when she enters.

“Lady Daenerys,” she says, coolly, kneeling before Dany. “And Lord Aegon,” she says as an afterthought, nodding at him.

“ _Queen_ Daenerys,” says Barristan Selmy primly. “Why, Arya Stark, you were but half a girl when I saw you last.”

There is a smirk playing across Arya Stark’s face as she answers, “I recognize no queen but the Queen in the North, Ser Barristan. Do not worry, I remember you too.”

Daenerys waves a hand, irritated. “ _Lady_ Arya, I trust you have come here for a reason.”

“That I have,” says Arya, her grin wide. “I come bearing a letter from my queen and sister,” she says, “She is safe and alive, hiding away at Greywater Watch, but she says she is to ride North to join us at once.”

“Sansa Stark? Here at the battlefield?” Barristan murmurs.

“Yes,” says Arya. “She rides with Jon Snow.”

At this Daenerys stands. “What say he?”

Now it is Arya’s turn to look irritated. “Nothing, beyond the fact that Sansa insists we _must_ ally with Stannis’s men. It is in our best interests. We need all the men we can get.”

“It is our fires against theirs,” Daenerys scowls. “It is typical of the Usurper’s bloodline to not recognize the one true queen.”

“Yes, but don’t you _get_ it?” Arya bites back. “All these politics are _useless_ right now! We’re fighting – we’re fighting something we don’t even know that much about, whose numbers can annihilate us and the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms – and who would want a kingdom built on frostbite and death, Daenerys?”

Daenerys sniffs.

+

He comes to her later, scowling in front of a fire.

“Lady Arya,” he greets.

“Lord Aegon,” she says. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

“I know you,” he says, his voice low. “Lady Arya of House Stark.” _I have heard how the men whisper. The Witch of Winter, they call you. The Lady of the Dreadfort, she who changes her face and kills men in their beds. They love you and they fear you._

She looks despondent in the firelight. “I have many names, Lord Aegon, and twice as many faces,” she says after a while.

“Yes, but that is the most important one right now.”

Arya  looks up at him and sighs. “If anything, I wish I could be my sister right now,” she says. “Sansa could make anyone believe anything. She’s pretty and smart and charming. Could make anyone fall in love with her, listen to her. Even Daenerys.”

“But I don’t think she could have saved me on the battlefield,” he puts in. “That was wonderful of you. Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” she says quickly. “Can’t have you dying on us, Lord Aegon. Imagine, you and Daenerys – the last scions of House Targaryen, once a great and powerful dynasty. A wonderful story.”

“Except for Jon,” Aegon blurts out.

Arya stares at him for a long, long while. “Jon is a Stark,” she says, very slowly. “He was raised a Stark, and will continue to live as one for as long as the gods will it. He is my brother regardless of birth. He is my _family_.”

“Wolves,” he whispers.

“When the snows rise and the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” Arya recites, her eyes far away. “And winter has come.”

+

“What do you know of the Stark girl?” he asks Barristan Selmy.

“Which one?” the old man says, not looking at him.

“Both of them,” says Aegon, but the older one is merely a ghost to him while Arya is beautiful and cold and alive.

“I knew them for a short while while their father, Lord Eddard, was still serving as Robert’s Hand,” he says. “Brought his daughters to court. He meant to bring one of his sons, too, but something held that up. Nevertheless, they were going to make a royal marriage out of the older one, who was beautiful and charming and soft. She was a little lady, right down to looking just like her mother.”

“And Arya?”

“Wild,” says Barristan Selmy. “She was a fierce, rebellious little girl, always running about picking on her sister. Lord Eddard indulged her, letting her have her own sword and hiring a Bravoosi to teach her fencing. She was like a younger –” a pause. “The very image of Lyanna Stark.”

He knows that name, has heard Griff mutter it angrily sometimes. _Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar’s little Queen of Love and Beauty, the pretty face at the center of the Rebellion. Fat lot of good that did her._ By rights he should have hated her, but if she was so much like _Arya_ …

“What happened after you left?”

“I am not sure,” the older man replies. “After Robert died, his eldest son ordered Lord Eddard’s execution and Lord Eddard’s oldest son called his banners and marched south. The older daughter was kept prisoner in King’s Landing, while the younger one escaped.”

_Escaped_ , he thinks. _A survivor, like me_.

+

Jon isn’t much of a talker, is not as spirited as the sister who looks like him. Arya says he looks like their – _her_ – father, like a Stark of old, all long-faced and dark-haired. But he’s a fighter, she says, like most of their family, and tough. Aegon hopes so.

“Lord Aegon,” Jon says gruffly, bowing. He moves with a tenseness Aegon hopes is really just his manner.

“Just Aegon,” he says, eyeing the other man cautiously. “As I presume I am allowed to call you Jon. We are, after all, brothers.”

It is difficult, admitting it out loud. He watches Jon’s face for any curve, twitch, feature that _he_ has, that _Rhaegar_ had, but Jon is a Stark outside as well as in, and he feels the familiar pit of disappointment in his stomach.

“Aegon.” Jon’s voice is tentative, as if he hasn’t quite believed it yet. He had brothers once, Aegon knows, one of an age as he and two younger. He wonders how difficult it is to add his name to that list. _Aegon. Robb Bran Rickon Aegon_. He thinks of his lovely dead sister, and how she would have taken to him.

“Jon,” Aegon returns in kind. “I presume you are here for a reason.”

“Yes.” Jon looks more in his element now, standing upright and clearing his throat. “I come at the behest of my sister Sansa Stark, the First of her Name, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North.”

“I thought Lady Sansa was to join us?” Daenerys says, scanning the entourage of Northern men. “Where is she?” Daenerys’s men murmur between themselves, but Jon merely smiles.

“Right here, my lady.” As soon as the high, clear voice floats over Castle Black’s courtyard, the Northern crowd parts to let its owner pass – he sees Sansa Stark for the first time. She is a head taller than Daenerys, with a slender frame and a pretty face.  “Lady Daenerys,” she says, curtseying deeply.

“Lady Sansa.” Daenerys’s voice is hard. “I trust you and Lord Snow have viable reason to have my entire court listen to you.”

“I believe my sister Arya has already relayed my message,” Sansa says, her voice perfectly calm. Beside him, Aegon feels Arya tense. “Although from the looks of it, my lady,” Sansa adds, glancing around the camp, “It appears our advice has gone unheeded. I see no stag banners adorning the tents, nor is Lord Stannis in sight.”

“You would have me ally with the Usurper’s blood,” says Daenerys, frowning.

“Yes,” Sansa replies smoothly. “My lady, when the White Walkers come crawling over the Wall, it will not matter who sits the Iron Throne. Why, there might not be anything to rule over, much less the throne itself.”

“And you would know this how?”

“From me, my lady.” Jon’s voice cracks. “I myself have had experiences with the White Walkers and their wights. Petty fighting will do the realm no good.”

“ _Petty_ , why –”

“My lady,” Sansa interjects, smiling, and beside him Arya still has not relaxed. _She was right_ , Aegon realizes. _By the gods, the court loves her already_. “Lord Stannis is an honorable man. He fights for the throne out of duty to his family and not out of a genuine desire to rule. He may take it but never hold it. The people have no love for him; the last Baratheons to sit the throne were less than adored by the populace. Once we have won against the Walkers, my lady, I assure you the North will do everything in its power to ensure the dragons sit the Iron Throne once more.”

“How _cruel_ ,” he thinks he hears Arya mutter. “She’d promised Stannis she’d help _him_.”

He thinks it’s the wind playing tricks.

Daenerys looks nearly convinced. “A tempting offer,” she says. “But words are wind. How are we sure you would honor your end of the bargain?”

Aegon expects a marriage proposal to come sailing straight out of Sansa Stark’s mouth, but instead she merely smiles. “The North is wolf country, always has been, and it would not do to intentionally put it in jeopardy. You and I – we are lucky enough to share the same enemies; I am loved and you are feared. Besides, my mother was a Tully, my lady. I am sure you know what their words are.”

Daenerys smiles.

+

Using what meager supplies they have, Daenerys throws a modest feast for Jon and Sansa’s arrival. She has her court’s musicians entertain the Starks with Eastern music, and the hall is filled with rich strings and hearty laughter. Jon and Sansa spin around the dancers, twisting and turning and smiling. She teaches him the spring reel, her auburn hair twisting out of its pins and falling in thick waves to her waist, the gray of her skirt barely touching the floor. She laughs, and it is a surprisingly fragile thing. Aegon watches them, wonders how it is to be so young and so powerful.

“They weren’t close when they were younger,” says Arya. He is shocked at how quickly she materializes beside him. “They got along fine, of course, but Mother disliked Jon and Sansa wanted to be just like Mother after a while. It’s sad,” she adds. “I think they would have gotten along beautifully.”

“Didn’t you have other brothers, my lady?”

Arya nods. “Sansa and Robb adored one another. I guess it was ‘cause they were born pretty close and Robb was always protective. He was the perfect little lord and she was the perfect little lady. Mother loved them, too.” She pauses. “Sansa and Bran were very alike, though. They both loved the same soppy songs and played at being lords and ladies. And of course Rickon loved Sansa fiercely; even though he was just a baby she had a way with young ones. It was just Jon she was distant with.”

“And I suppose it was Jon you loved,” says Aegon.

“Jon gave me my first sword,” she says by way of reply, beaming. “But I’m sure my brothers loved me, too.”

He laughs. “I see.”

“It’s weird, seeing them like this,” says Arya. “Close and sibling-like, I mean. I’m not even sure how it started.”

“What about you and Sansa?”

Arya’s mouth forms a little round _o_. “We – we were horrible to one another,” she says softly. “I could not help it. Sansa was born for court, and I thought our parents loved her best. I suppose I was the tiniest bit resentful. We were always different to begin with.”

Aegon opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Jon and Sansa coming over to them. “Lord Aegon,” Sansa greets smoothly, dipping into another of her graceful curtsies. She is achingly beautiful, with river-colored eyes and hair like firelight. “Arya,” she says, opening her arms wide and embracing her sister. “Come join us!”

Arya laughs nervously. “I was never the most graceful of dancers, Sansa.”

“I could teach you,” says Sansa, her face eager. “Come on, Arya, you were always so quick on your feet. And we have so much time to learn.” The happiness on her face is palpable.

Jon briefly glances at Arya, and shares a knowing look. “Perhaps I should teach Arya, Sansa,” he offers. “You’re too good a dancer, sister; she might have trouble keeping up.”

Sansa looks affronted for the tiniest fraction of a second, but her composure is flawless the next. “Then maybe Lord Aegon would care to honor me with a dance?” Her voice is only vaguely coy.

He smiles, the familiar courtesies washing over him. _Born for court_. “I would be _honored_ , Lady Sansa.”

 Sansa takes his hand, her fingers long and soft and nimble, and walks with him to the dance floor. The music swells, and they bow low.

“I saw you talking to my sister, Lord Aegon,” she says, a smile ghosting across her face.

He wants to reply to her, tell her how blessed she is to have such a sister as Arya, but the words bubble up in his throat and his eyes widen and he can’t say _anything_ –

Lady Sansa looks him up and down, and then smiles. “I am glad. Arya…finds it difficult to open up to other people. When she returned to us, she would not talk to Jon and me for an entire moon’s turn. She has been through much.” She is pensive, her eyes downcast. Aegon can hear the murmurs of Daenerys’s court, feels the eyes boring into the two of them, knows how beautiful they are together.

He does not know how to talk to Sansa, cannot reach out to her the same way he has done to Arya. Arya, had she not staunchly refused to dance with him, would have held his hand firmly, would have led, would have looked him in the eye, would have twirled herself around with such fire and dignity. But Sansa smiles prettily and bows daintily and ghosts her fingers over his hands, follows his lead around the dance floor. He wonders how it was her who came to rule, this softer, more pliant older sister.

“She is remarkable,” he says at last.

“I’m glad you think so,” says Sansa. The dance ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Aegon would misjudge Sansa, poor naive bb.


	4. i never say anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a difficult thing, looking like someone,” he says finally. “There are expectations unspoken."

The Wall does not fall so much as it crumbles, cracks appearing near the top and branching out like a world tree, power and magic seeping through and out them. Slowly, the majestic structure collapses, chunks of ice falling to the ground like a frozen inferno, as if it is a god itself falling from the heavens.

 _That is silly_ , thinks Sansa, clutching Viserion’s back. _There can be no such god._ She knows what it is like, she thinks, to think you have power only to crumble in the face of those much greater.

Daenerys shakes her head and laughs as her dragon burns the winter bronze. She has a beautiful laugh, the way she tips her head back and lets the bells in her hair tinkle. _Among the Dothraki_ , Sansa remembers, _the bells in a man’s hair tell you how many other men he’s killed_. She had looked, astonished, at Daenerys’s waist-length braid, bells hanging from every twist. _Of course_ , Daenerys had added, _they did not expect me_. _How many men have you killed, Sansa_?

 _Two,_ she remembered replying, Daenerys’s skillful fingers weaving the bells into her hair. _One of them was not my own fault, but it still counts._ The lack of guilt she feels makes her worry.

 _Two. Very honorable indeed_.

She is nothing but honorable, she thinks, remembering her poor dead father and mother.  _Father was honorable to a fault, and Mother was a Tully_.

 _What now_ , she asks her brother, and she can almost feel him smile through Viserion’s mouth. _Patience, dearest sister. Daenerys knows what she is doing_.

Sansa smiles, too, and clutches Viserion’s back harder. Beneath them, Aegon grins as Rhaegal burns an entire group of Walkers to ashes.

 _He could be dangerous_ , says Bran in her head. _You and I both know the type to be drunk on power._

She shakes her head; she does not need the future to read people. _I don’t think so. Jon is with him._

 _That is true_. _But Jon has always put family first._

_Aegon is his family._

_But so are we, Sansa._

* * *

 

“I need help controlling the dragons,” says Daenerys, her head bent low.

Jon and Sansa had looked at one another, then at Arya, then at  Daenerys, then at Ghost. “What do you mean?” Jon asks, his voice low.

“Drogon and I have a bond,” says Daenerys, her clear voice enunciating every syllable. “Perhaps not as… _pronounced_ as Jon and Ghost’s, but I can control him with relative ease. I nearly lost Viserion and Rhaegal, though, in the east.” Her smile is lovely and sad. “What kind of mother cannot control her children?”

 _The worst kind._ Sansa remembers mocking smirks and bright green eyes and curls her fingers in Ghost’s fur, feeling the worn, familiar pang, and glances at Jon. “What do you need us to do?” she murmurs.

The candles in the room heighten the shadows in Daenerys’s face, the worn pallor, and for the first time Sansa can imagine the crown on Robb’s head, the weight of it on his shoulders, his tired smile. _I should never have wanted to rule so young_. She thinks of Aegon out hunting, older than all of them but brighter and more eager, and feels a stab of sadness and pity. He was no better than Margaery’s cousins. “I know that you Starks are skinchangers,” Daenerys whispers, and it hangs heavy in the room.

Sansa no longer wants to know how, or why. Arya bites her lip.

“To control a dragon,” Daenerys says, “is no easy feat. A rider will be with you. But Jon, while you are a skilled commander, the dragons are the main powerhouse of my army and it is of utmost importance that they are secure. And Lady Arya –”

“I refuse,” says Arya.

Daenerys raises one silver-gold eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t do it,” Arya explains, raising her hands helplessly. “My wolf – in the Riverlands, I can’t – not without her.” Her eyes are bright, and Sansa wonders how exactly Nymeria was involved in keeping her sister human.

“Then I am sure Lady Sansa has the strength of will and mind necessary to control such a beast.” Daenerys looks apologetic.

“Forgive me, Lady Daenerys.” Her voice sounds crisp in the cold air. “Since – since I lost my wolf, I have had little to no contact with animals.”

Nobody says anything for a very long time.

“Very well, then.” Daenerys stands at the same time Jon blurts out, “Bran is alive.”

Arya shrieks and Sansa’s eyes fill with tears.

“Bran is alive,” Jon continues – “Beyond the Wall. A greenseer, they call him, a most powerful skinchanger.”

“How do you know, Jon?” Arya’s voice is strained.

“Death brings people together, my dear sister,” is all Jon says sagely.

Sansa cannot bring herself to believe it, has to choke back the familiar surge of hope. _One brother did not save us all, who’s to say another one will_? Petyr’s voice chimes in her head. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Arya touches her fingers lightly, and Sansa forces a smile. “Bran will help us,” she says, sounding more confident than she is. “I know it.”

Daenerys sits back down, delighted, and is about to say something else when Aegon pokes his head through the tent door, an apologetic Barristan at his heels. “What’s this?” he asks cheerfully. “Having a war council without me?”

“Nothing of the sort,” says Daenerys, smiling. “We were catching up. You must really talk to the Starks, Aegon; they are quite delightful companions.” She points her glass at him. “Would you like some summer wine?”

* * *

 

Sometimes it is as if all the North has been sucked out of Sansa, replaced with humid summer air and flimsy Southron dresses. The South has burned her up, warmed her cheeks and charred her bones so there is no winter left. She does not know how she has ever survived the cold, and she curls up underneath layers of furs and shivers. Castle Black is nothing like Winterfell, let alone King’s Landing, but it’s Northern and for now it’s all she needs. _Winter is coming_ , she tells herself, _winter is coming winter is coming winter is coming_.

Sometimes Arya knocks on her door and stands outside, looking absolutely miserable.

Always, Sansa and Arya huddle in the large bed, their feet curled together and their foreheads touching. It’s comforting, almost, the knowledge of what it is like to actually _have_ a sister. She and Arya are _different_ now, that much Sansa can see; she can see how Arya smiles weakly and tries to hold her utensils properly at dinner and tries to curtsy as gracefully as she can in Sansa’s presence. Sansa knows that Arya trembles at night, how she sometimes wakes up sweating and about to scream, can tell that the Arya Stark she knows now is as fragile as a thin sheet of ice. She has smoothed back Arya’s hair and pressed kisses to her forehead, has told her time and time again _you are Arya a Stark of Winterfell you have three brothers and I am your sister winter is coming_.

_Perhaps I could have done this with her long ago._

“Perhaps you can teach me a few things, Arya,” she tells her once, when the castle is at a standstill and the air is quiet.

Arya looks appalled. “There’s nothing you can possibly learn from me, Sansa,” she says. “I’ve got nothing that could be of any use to _you_.” Suddenly horrified, her eyes widen and she claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like–”

Sansa laughs; words are wind and she has learned to brush them under the carpet, to pay no heed to what comes out of men’s mouths. “It is all right, Arya. But I’ve learned it’s always good to have…other methods of defense. I was wondering if you thought I’d be any good at, say, throwing knives.”

Her sister looks delighted. “I’d say you have the eye for it, Sansa,” she says, grinning.

They practice all afternoon. Sansa laughs and the bells in her hair jingle. She does not have the aim Arya thought she would and misses more dummies’ vital organs than Arya would like, but she does have beautiful arm movements and a calm demeanor, and Sansa supposes it’s a start.

She smiles, and is golden.

They tumble into the Great Hall at dinner, flushed with rare wintertime excitement, arms around each other’s shoulders. Jon greets them at the door, something close to awe on his face as he stares at his cousins. Sansa giggles and hugs and kisses him on the cheek, making him smile too and hug them back. “My sisters,” he says, laughing. “My beautiful, lovely sisters. Welcome back.”

She wonders if this is, too, is a start.

* * *

 

It is difficult, seeing Jon ghost around the hallways. She wonders if he’d thought about it, looking like a man who wasn’t his father after all. She wonders if he sees her mother in her as Petyr had – as _everyone_ had, and she brushes her hair at night wondering if her face will ever be her own.

Arya looks like Lyanna; that much she knows; she wonders if Mother and she had gotten along. _Had they met at all_? She supposes that they would if they had; if Mother in her youth was anything like the Mother she had known, she would have embraced Lyanna warmly and indulged her in all her little quirks. Sansa supposed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun had always been like that.

The two of them would have made a pretty picture.

She sighs.

She wonders what her point was in coming here, where it is colder than even Winterfell. The repairs are underway; she had left her best men at Winterfell overseeing and they suppose they will be done in four moons’ turn. She could have stayed there, have the northmen kneel at her feet and beg pardons and mercy. She could have gone with Margaery and Tyrion back to King’s Landing, helped the southroners prepare for what was coming. She could have been a queen.

 _There will be time for that_ , she scolds herself, _for me, there is all the time in the world_.

She thinks of Jon and Arya, and even of Bran, far away and probably even colder. _Not for them_.

 

* * *

 

The prince is mad for her sister.

Aegon is exactly what Father had said Rhaegar was like – beautiful, charming, foolish. He is discreet enough in his affections that she doesn’t think Daenerys can see, but Sansa knows men, knows how to interpret the brief smiles and finger twitching, can see the meaning behind the winter roses he brings home after a hunt – there was one for Sansa too, of course, and Daenerys, but she isn’t stupid.

She wonders what his intentions are; she knows Daenerys has no intention of wedding him formally – _We could share the throne, perhaps, or he will rule when I die_.

 _“You need him,”_ Sansa had insisted. _“Without marrying him the high lords dissatisfied with you could use him to their own gains. Aegon is naïve, they would have him believe he has the better claim. Chaos could break out as quickly as it all ended.”_

 _“It doesn’t matter,”_ the other girl had told her smoothly. _“I can never bear children anyway, Sansa_.” Her voice had been tired and sad, and Sansa thought back to a time when all she wanted was to be queen and bear children.

 _“Aegon, I think, wants companionship_ ,” Daenerys had added. _“After Griff – he thinks I will be enough in the way of family.”_

So that’s it, then – Aegon is romancing her sister, determined to be prepared for when the throne passes to him.

Sansa does not know what to think.

* * *

 

“I think Aegon is in love with Arya,” Sansa whispers conspiratorially. It is good to whisper secretively without the risk of anyone hearing after so long, Castle Black is just dank and empty and not at all like the Red Keep enough.

Jon’s brows furrow. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s in his body language,” she says, waving her hand.

“So?” Jon’s voice is calm but his eyebrows are still knit together. “What’s the problem?”

The thing is Sansa is not sure what precisely the problem _is_ – Arya had always been difficult, averse to marriage, difficult to please. She should have been happy for her sister, ecstatic that a prince was courting her.

“I don’t want her to leave me, Jon.”

Jon hugs her, then, and she can’t help but notice how he smells of pine and freshly-fallen snow.

_Like the North._

* * *

 

The battle is over.

Stannis is in the main tent with Daenerys; her siblings are bustling about Castle Black tending to the men. Sansa sits next to Ser Jaime, offers him a skin of water. He looks tired, now, and so much older than when she had met him in King’s Landing – there are lines on his face and his hair is scraggly and thin, no longer the beautiful knight in shining armor he was.

 _We both have changed_.

“Thank you, milady.” He takes the skin of wine without another word.

“Do you think of her?” she blurts out before she can stop herself. Flushing bright red, she ducks her head. “I’m sorry, ser Jaime. I meant no offense. I did not mean to pry–”

He laughs, but even that is tired. “Still as proper as ever,” he chides, as if he had not accompanied her from the Vale. “Your mother taught you well, I see.” His face turns serious. “Of course I do, Sansa. No need to be embarrassed about that. Despite everything, she was and always will be my only sister.” His eyes are sad, something she had never seen in the queen regent.

“I know how that feels, at least,” she murmurs.

“Ser Jaime,” she says suddenly. “Did you know my mother?” It’s an odd question, something she has never asked anyone, but everything is cold and hard and unfamiliar now and perhaps some knowledge of the past would give warmth, even from Jaime Lannister. _A memory of Mother in a time I did not know her would still be a memory of Mother._

“That I did,” he replies, smiling a little. “There were talks of betrothing me to your Aunt Lysa. I spent time in Riverrun because of that, and I got to know your mother.”

“What was she like?”

“Certainly warmer than she was when I met her nearly fifteen years later,” says Jaime. “That’s what the North does to us Southerners, takes out all our heat. We become colder.”

 _The opposite is true for the Northerners who go south_ , Sansa thinks.

“She looked a lot like you right now, you know.”

“I know.”

Jaime looks at her intently. “It’s a difficult thing, looking like someone,” he says finally. “There are expectations unspoken. For me, it was inseparability.” His gaze is distant. “It was too good to be true. She was everything I was, and then she wasn’t.”

“But you _loved_ her.” Sansa’s voice cracks.

He smiles broadly, and for a second he’s the shining Kingsguard knight of her dreams again. “I did. I _do_.”

His golden hand glimmers in the sunlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning is a homage to the lovely fic "Sister Wife" by Nary.


	5. there's no mystery left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vellum is unfamiliar and there is no seal, but the raven looks at her bright-eyed and the familiar, elegant script jumps out at her immediately.
> 
>  
> 
> _The Wall is fallen. It is over. We have won._

The raven taps the window eagerly, as if it cannot wait to deliver the news it is bearing. Margaery wonders who would be sending ravens to her now, now that her grandmother has passed on and Garlan is off at war, Willas too busy tending to Highgarden to write. She, too, has been busy, keeping the smallfolk in order, handing out rations from the Reach like she was doing three short years ago – except now, it’s out of genuine fear. _A queen_ , Tyrion had mused sadly, _in all but name_ – and it’s true, after Tommen _Hill_ had been sent back to his family in the Westerlands, Margaery’s queenship had been revoked twice over: yet after Cersei’s death she’d been forced to stay.

It is difficult, not having a ruler on the throne. Stannis is off in the North with Daenerys, Shireen safely swept under the rug at Storm’s End. She’d suggested that Tyrion take it, but he’d laughed shortly and said the smallfolk hated him too much. The smallfolk are anxious and demand a ruler, swearing by the gods that a new one will bring peace and order – as Aegon had, as Robert had. Margaery just looks away; she has known enough about ruling to know that it’s hardly true.

The vellum is unfamiliar and there is no seal, but the raven looks at her bright-eyed and the familiar, elegant script jumps out at her immediately.

_The Wall is fallen. It is over. We have won._

Margaery does the most unqueenlike thing she could do at that moment – she gapes, wide-eyed at the paper, and can do nothing else but sink to the floor and sob.

* * *

 

She bursts into Tyrion’s solar, brandishing the letter and about to cry excitedly, when she finds him gaping at an identical piece of vellum. He turns to her and sees the letter in her hand, and smiles.

“It seems Sansa wanted to get the word out as soon as possible.”

Margaery’s eyes fill with tears. “It seems she did.”

* * *

 

The month before Daenerys’s arrival are a whirl of curtains and scrubbing and the smell of spices wafting from the kitchen, Tyrion barking orders and smiling to himself. All the servants are invigorated by the victory and the arrival of a queen despite the winter. Whispers flow like rivers from the North to the capital, speaking of the Dragon Queen’s beauty, of how fearsome her dragons were, of her comely nephew, with Rhaegar’s face and Elia’s smile, of the Stark sisters – silent, deadly Arya, and tall, queenly Sansa.

Margaery can do nothing but smile wistfully at the thought of Sansa – two years ago she’d been just a girl who’d whimper and fade into the corner, clinging to her songs and stories: but two years ago, Margaery, despite herself, was just a girl as well, and now it was Sansa who would go into the songs.

Tysha is a great comfort in these days; she does needlework in Margaery’s solar and holds her hand sometimes with the patience of someone who has known suffering and wishes for others never to know it. Margaery thinks piteously that she’d never know how to hold a hand like that in her life.

“What are you thinking about, Lady Margaery?” Tysha says one day, finishing up the embroidery on a baby blanket – it’s purple, with golden lions dancing on a field of flowers. Red and gold have no place in this castle anymore.

Tysha’s hand finds its way to her belly and she smiles, glowing with the grace of an expectant mother. She and Tyrion could not be married until the annulment of his marriage to Sansa, which would take place once the coronation was finished. Genna, Tywin’s last remaining sibling, who felt she needed to take on herself the responsibilities of the Lannister family and her brothers’ legacy, had balked at it, saying that it was against tradition, but Margaery knows there is no room for tradition right now. Not anymore.

“I’m excited for their arrival,” Margaery admits, and it’s the truth. A part of her is excited to see the last Targaryens, beautiful and dangerous as they are, a part of her hungers for Garlan’s companionship, yet still she wants to see Sansa, see the lady she had evolved into. _She-wolf. Winter rose. The Queen in the North._

“So am I,” says Tysha. “But do not set your expectations too high, Lady Margaery. That inevitably leads to disappointment.”

* * *

 

When the day comes, the keep floods with the most nobles Margaery has seen in one room since her fateful second wedding. Her brother arrives from Highgarden, their parents and Garlan’s wife Leonette in tow. She embraces Willas tightly – he looks more world-weary than when she had last seen him three years ago, but he laughs and calls her Marg and she knows that somehow he was still the same boy whose lap she had sat on as a child.

Arianne Martell arrives in a whirl of summer silks; the bright colors she and her entourage defiantly wear are an odd comfort in the days of winter. She begins an odd friendship with the older girl, who teaches her to wear her hair loose and laugh like she owned the world. She had been betrothed, she confided in Margaery, to _Viserys Targaryen_ , and Margaery asks her why she is telling her this and Arianne just shakes her head and tells her it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Are you to marry Aegon?” Margaery asks.

Arianne snorts. “The Targaryens may wed brother to sister, dear Margaery, but the Martells do not even wed cousin to cousin. It doesn’t matter; he was already guaranteed Dorne’s support from birth. And still, I will inherit Dorne, let the Others take anyone who says my children aren’t my own.” She gives Margaery a broad smile. “Still, Aegon needs a wife,” Arianne continues. “He tells me he will not marry Daenerys, since she cannot bear a living child anyway. He needs a highborn girl who will lend his reign an air of legitimacy.” She looks meaningfully at Margaery, who balks.

“I am tired of marriage,” Margaery admits, smiling.

“Well,” says Arianne. “Good thing I never got the chance to try it.”

They have a good laugh over that.

* * *

 

Willas says he finds a half-written marriage proposal on her father’s desk, addressed to the Dragon Queen.

“For you?” she croaks out, hoping against hope.

“For you,” he asserts, watching her face. Margaery resists the urge to groan, instead inhaling and giving her brother a half-smile.

Willas laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry. I burned it.”

* * *

 

The trumpeters blare as if it’s the end of the world, and Daenerys Targaryen trots into the Red Keep on a lovely black palfrey, her silver hair flying out behind her. She is as beautiful as the whispers claim, but she seems so small and tired, and Margaery wonders how someone her age can be so world-weary and sad. Her dragons scream and fly overhead, the crowd gasping at them as they perch themselves onto the roof of the Dragonpit, but Margaery is far too tired to be amazed.

Aegon Targaryen is as comely as they say – his face is every maiden’s fantasy, his smile enough to send girls squealing in the stables. He walks with the easy grace an heir apparent has, and Margaery can already see the wheels turning in her father’s head.

Surprisingly – Jon Snow shows up, Lord Commander of nothing, now that the Wall has fallen. He looks uncomfortable decked in Targaryen red, Eddard Stark’s bastard no longer, but it’s obvious he longs for the comfortable gray and white his sisters are draped in, and shrugs his black cloak closer around him. He does not need it anymore, Margaery muses, but then Tyrells are not taught the value of sentimentality.

 His _sisters_ – Margaery has never met Arya, and now she believes she never will: the younger Stark girl walks guarded, as if she will never let anyone in ever again. She has the sort of wild beauty the songs say her aunt Lyanna had: all tousled dark hair and sharp gray eyes, the lithe and elegant build of a fighter.

But Sansa: for a second Margaery remembers, briefly, Lady Catelyn, when she had visited poor dead Renly’s camp, remembers Lady Catelyn’s river-blue eyes and hair like low flames, thinks of her graceful, soft beauty, and all of it is reflected in Sansa Stark a thousandfold. She and her sister could not look more different, but then they both have the same innocent, guarded beauty, the same intelligent glint in their eyes, the same proud curve to their lips. _She-wolves_. For a second, Margaery feels chills down her spine, but then Sansa catches her eye and flashes her a beautiful, brilliant smile.

* * *

 

Tyrion had ordered the servants to prepare a feast, to honor the high lords and ladies and of course the Queen herself, whose dragons had burned the Wall and the Others to a crisp, and had saved them all. King’s Landing is the happiest Margaery has ever seen it, with minstrels playing summer songs nonstop, the wine flowing freely, and the dancers laughing. Garlan is dancing with Leonette, her head tucked haphazardly under his chin, both of them looking loving and contented. Poor Father has ended up with Arianne Martell, trying desperately to keep up with her. Sansa is spinning her brother Jon around the room, her red hair flying, looking the most defiantly _free_ Margaery has ever seen her.

“So that’s Sansa Stark, eh,” Willas’s voice says from behind her. She turns around to see him leaning on his cane, observing Sansa and Jon. “She’s quite the beauty.”

“She could have been ours,” Margaery finds herself saying.

 “Never,” says Willas mildly. “The girl dancing up there right now could never be contained by Highgarden, don’t you think?”

“Two years ago, she could have,” says Margaery.

“Perhaps,” says Willas. “But life is funny like that, dear sister, and winter has come. Would you like to dance?”

Margaery smiles up at him and takes his hand, and she helps him limp to the rest of the dancers, and for a while she feels like she is a girl again.

Later, a change of partners leaves Margaery with Prince Aegon, who looks as genial and at ease as he did earlier. He gives her a once-over, bemused. “So you are Lady Margaery Lannister,” he says. “I have heard a lot about you.”

Suddenly, bile threatens to rise in Margaery’s throat at his words, but she forces it down and instinctively flashes him her most charming smile. “It’s just Margaery _Tyrell_ , now,” she corrects. “I don’t know who would be talking about me, _Your Grace_.”

He laughs. “Lady Sansa has mentioned you in conversation,” he says. “She says you were one of her companions during her time here.”

 _What a pleasant way to put it_. “Is that how she put it?”

“Yes. She speaks highly of you, and Daenerys is taking that into note.”

Margaery then realizes what cards Sansa is playing – mercy: mercy for her family, who had sided with the Lannisters, using her good graces with the Queen to save them. _But why_ , Margaery resists the urge to ask, and she continues chatting idly until it’s time to change partners again.

* * *

 

There are pardons, many pardons, and twice as many funerals; Stannis is buried, not cremated, at his daughter’s wishes. _The Red God and his fires consumed  my father_ , Shireen had murmured. _I will not have fire take his bones, too_. Jaime Lannister is wearing white once again, except his armor is no longer the gold Margaery remembers but a stark black. _He is in_ mourning, said Tyrion. _Do not worry, his armor will be white from now on_. Margaery grows bored with seeing this lord executed and that lady granted a keep, and instead turns her attention to the politics of King’s Landing.

Sansa Stark has a seat on the small council for now, until the rebuilding of Winterfell she had ordered is finished. It seems Arianne, as Dorne’s representative, has taken a liking to her, too, even though they cannot be more unalike, as Margaery sees them walk arm in arm to the council room, chatting all the while.

She has not gotten the chance to talk to the younger girl since the latter’s arrival, since Sansa and her siblings are always in the Queen’s company and the Queen is always elsewhere. She knows the Winterfell situation is more complicated than they let on; that who is to rule it has not been settled and neither has its independence. Robb Stark, for all his remarkably short reign, had done quite the damage to current diplomacy.

But as luck would have it, she finds Sansa Stark in the glass gardens one morning on her morning walk.

“Lady Margaery,” Sansa greets, looking up from her bench. “I have not seen you in quite the while.”

“Nor have I you,” Margaery replies in kind.

She finds Sansa in the glass gardens, one day, staring at a lovely patch of blue winter roses. For once, her sister Arya – always her shadow, now, and she has never once spoken to Margaery – is not around.

“I didn’t know these bloomed in the capital,” Sansa says, straightening. It’s the most Sansa has said to her in years.

Margaery softens. “My family thought they would be a fitting tribute,” she admits. “My brother Willas bred them himself, in Highgarden’s glass gardens.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything, only looks at her with those wide eyes. _A man could drown in her eyes_ , Margaery thinks wistfully.

“You know, Lady Margaery,” says the younger girl, perhaps just as wistfully. “I still have not been to Highgarden.”

Margaery studies Sansa’s face – she’s more beautiful than ever, but also so much more colder. “Lady Sansa,” says Margaery, tentatively. “I hope you understand that my family bore you no ill will.”

Sansa laughs, then, suddenly – a high, tinkling sound. “Of course they didn’t.” She gestures to the bench she’s sitting on. “Do sit. We have not gotten the chance to talk, you and I."

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Margaery. “But isn’t there a small council meeting right now?”

Sansa laughs, a high, trilling sound. “I was feeling quite under the weather, so I didn’t attend,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious excuse in the world – but Margaery can see the tenseness of her shoulders, the grip of her fist, and wonders what on earth has happened.

“What are you going to do now, Lady Margaery?” says Sansa a few moments later, as if she has forgotten her decorum.

Margaery smiles sweetly. “I don’t know, honestly. My father wanted me to worm my way into Aegon's good graces, but I told her that a girl thrice married can hardly give him anything. I have half a mind to follow my brothers back to Highgarden and live there for the rest of my life. There’s nothing for me here, now.”

Sansa looks shocked. “A lady of your caliber will do no such thing,” she says. “I assure you, Daenerys has no intention of letting you do that.”

“What other plans does she have in mind? Am I to marry her nephew?” Margaery drawls, almost sarcastically.

Sansa laughs again. “Oh, no. As it turns out, Tyrion is as tired of King’s Landing as I am – and now that he can inherit Casterly Rock, he intends to move back there with Tysha once they are wed.” Margaery does not miss the look of relief on Sansa’s face. “You are to stay on at King’s Landing, dear Margaery – as Hand of the Queen.”

For a second, Margaery can see nothing but Sansa’s mouth forming the words, and her eyes widen in shock. “You’re joking. I can’t possibly do that, that’s unprecedented–”

“Tyrion told Daenerys how masterfully you handled King’s Landing while we were fighting,” says Sansa calmly. “Additionally, you are well-learned in politics and will lend her an air of legitimacy. Daenerys has Dothraki bloodriders as part of her Queensguard, Margaery. Do you think the people will accept that? Accept her?”

“A highborn girl as Hand of the Queen couldn’t possibly lend her _anything_ –”

Sansa smiles, lovely and cunning. “Nonsense, Margaery. It is the Age of Queens, now, don’t you know?”

* * *

 

“I lost one of my brothers,” says Margaery one day. “Loras. You met him.”

Sansa looks up from her needlework. Margaery sees Sansa’s face change for a brief, fleeting moment, remembers Sansa’s infatuation with Loras – dear, beautiful Loras, who had tried so hard and struggled so much and, in the end, had been disposed of to further their own end.

She expects the younger girl to say something of condolence – “As have I, Lady Margaery; I’ve lost more, Lady Margaery; It gets easier, Lady Margaery.” She thinks of Sansa’s brothers – tall, handsome Robb, sweet, gentle Bran, carefree, childish Rickon, all of whom had shared her Tully beauty. But Sansa just observes the falling snow, and says, “Do you know why the Stark words are what they are, Lady Margaery?”

Margaery shakes her head, wrapping the shawl closer to her body.

“It’s to remind us that we don’t all live in perpetual summer – especially not those like you and I, who were raised in it. We played in it. We thought the world was beautiful.” Sansa looks down. “It reminds us that eventually, we must all struggle. When we struggle, we change. And after that, we can grow again.”

“The world is beautiful, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa smiles at again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long oh man my computer died and I lost EVERYTHING
> 
> ALSO this is a plot advancement chapter, taking place before Chapter 2 and after Chapters 3 and 4.


	6. (bad news, bad news)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I missed you the most."
> 
> "Thanks, Arya. I missed you too."
> 
> "Promise me you won't leave."
> 
> "I promise."

“You ate lunch with Margaery Tyrell.”

Sansa raises one perfect eyebrow at her, and continues munching on the brisket as if nothing had happened.

“Sansa.”

“Arya.”

“You ate lunch with her.”

“I don’t see what you’re _getting_ at–”

“You _told_ her, didn’t you?

Sansa’s ladylike façade doesn’t slip one bit – is what Arya would like to see, but she has learned to know her sister, been trained to see the minute way Sansa’s fingers clutch tightly around her fork.

“I still can’t believe you would do such a petty thing.” It’s almost comforting, yelling at Sansa, as if they’re children again and this would have no lasting consequences. But they’re not children anymore, and winter has come.

“It was just a luncheon,” Sansa says matter-of-factly. “I was returning the kind favor she had done me when we were both staying in King’s Landing.”

Arya’s eyes widen – Sansa has never, ever spoken about her time in King’s Landing; Arya had chosen to just not assume anything, to not wonder what had hardened and softened her sister all at once.

“That’s not just it, is it?” she snaps. “You told her because you were being _petty_! She thinks you’re her friend!”

“I _am_ her friend, and that is why I told her,” Sansa replies, deadly calm. “Margaery Tyrell has three brothers, none of whom would _ever_ –”

“–Disinherit her,” Arya finishes quietly. She has thought of how this must weigh on Sansa, Maege Mormont turning up with Howland Reed in tow, brandishing Robb’s will. Sansa had cried when they had turned up, but had not shed a single tear when the will was being read, turning away and retreating back to her chambers. Arya suspects she’d cried there – and how could she not, when both of them had been banking on Robb to save them from King’s Landing, and now–

“I don’t deserve to rule as Queen,” she says finally. Sansa’s face is a mask. “Jon doesn’t want it, says it should be you, and Bran–”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Life has _never_ been about getting what we want, Arya.”

* * *

 

“She’s not married anymore,” Jon had said quietly when she had broached the subject for the first time. “The only reason _Robb_ did it was so it wouldn’t fall into Lannister hands, but Tyrion–”

“Their marriage was annulled, and Tyrion Lannister is going back to Casterly Rock, as he wanted,” Arya had said. _Good for him, getting what he wants._

“There’s no condition, though, that says she’s back in the line of succession if she’s not a Lannister anymore–” Jon begins.

“Sansa was _never_ a Lannister!” Arya snaps. “You don’t want it, and I can’t do it, and God knows what _Bran_ ’s up to, and Rickon–”

They both fall silent.

“Lord Manderly told me about his plan,” says Jon. “If Rickon were to turn up alive–”

“Rickon _is_ alive,” Arya hisses, her fingers curling into Nymeria’s fur. “I know it.”

“Oh, Arya.” Jon stands up and stretches. For a moment, Arya can see the scar on his neck, stark red against his pale skin. “For all intents and purposes, he isn’t, and despite Robb’s mistakes, to dishonor his will would be to dishonor him.”

“Even if his will dishonors _Sansa_? Jon, she _loved_ him.” _Missed him. Wished she would be saved by him._ It is a good feeling, being mad on Sansa’s behalf for once.

Jon looks very much like Father in that moment, wise and tired, and it breaks Arya’s heart. “Someone once told me – the things we love destroy us every time. Never forget that.”

* * *

 

 _They called Robb the King who Lost the North_ , Arya thinks, padding along the halls of the Red Keep. _And now Sansa the Queen without the North_.

Daenerys’s ladylike mien had not slipped when Robb’s will was being read, but Arya knows how to read the relieved curve of her lip, the calculating glint in her eye, the breathless sigh she releases. _She thinks Jon ruling the North is a_ good _thing_ , Arya realizes suddenly. And then – _She thinks she can_ control _him, more than she can Sansa._

 _What if she proposes marriage_? Arya thinks, bile rising in her throat at the thought. _Jon wouldn’t, he’s too honorable, but if it is advantageous to the North_ – She shakes her head. Sansa had always been better at these things than she was.

She despises the stifling heat of King’s Landing – it is winter now, but still there is a thick humidity in the air that even the occasional snowfall cannot disperse – and she almost wishes for Winterfell, for its heart tree, for the rooms that ran warm with thousand-year-old springs. But the repairs will take two moons more, Sansa says, and for now they must stay here, under the Targaryens’ protection.

“Lady Arya!”

She looks up. Prince Aegon is smiling at her.

“Prince Aegon.” She dips her head as curtly as she can.

“What are you doing, wandering around the halls after dinner?” he asks, the very picture of courtesy. Sansa would have swooned.

“I have just finished dining with my sister,” she says. “I thought I would go for a short walk after, is all.”

Aegon laughs, as if she’s just told the funniest joke in the world. “It’s getting late, Lady Arya. Do allow me to walk you back to your chambers.”

 _I can walk back to my chambers just fine_ , she opens her mouth to say, but imagines Sansa looking disapprovingly down at her. “You are too kind, Prince Aegon.”

Aegon laughs again. _Fool boy,_ she finds herself thinking, even though she is six years his junior, but she allows herself to hook her arm around his.

“Your sister – how is she?” Aegon asks, cordially. “I imagine your brother’s will was hard on her.”

Arya flinches, and wishes, not for the first time, that she had Sansa’s unblinking mien. “Sansa is coping, as she always has,” she says finally, wanting nothing more than to wrench her arm from his grasp. “She would have made a good queen.” It’s the truth.

“Daenerys says it will be best for all if you honor your brother’s will,” Aegon says nonchalantly.

“Does she also say it will be best if you broker a marriage?” Arya snaps spitefully before she can help herself.

If Aegon thinks anything of her ungainly outburst, he says nothing of it, something Arya is grateful for. “She says it is an option,” he says calmly. “Advantageous to the crown, certainly.”

“And Jon ruling the North instead of my sister would leave not only a Northern lord with Targaryen blood in Winterfell, but one available maiden to your cause, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Aegon says, his tone just a tad whimsical. “Two.” He smiles at her.

Suddenly, Arya wrenches her arm from his elbow. “If you’ll allow me, Prince Aegon,” she forces out, her voice stiff, “My sister’s chambers are just around the next corner. I promised my sister I would talk to her tonight, and I would rather I show up there alone.”

Aegon’s smile does not leave his face. “As you wish, my lady. Good night.”

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” says Sansa later, running a brush through Arya’s dark hair. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

Arya closes her eyes. “Think nothing of it. It was none of his business.”

She could have sworn she head Sansa laugh. “As crown prince, I would say it’s plenty of his business, dear,” she says. “He and I might be betrothed, or so Margaery tells me.”

This time, Arya knows better than to say anything about Margaery. “I hope not,” she says instead. “He’s a fool.”

“It could be worse.” Sansa sighs. “Better a husband that is beautiful and foolish than one that is beautiful and cruel,” she says softly, parting Arya’s hair to be plaited. “Or one that is ugly and intelligent, or one that is beautiful and intelligent.”

“I thought Tyrion was kind to you, Sansa.”

“Relatively.” Arya knows better than to press the topic, but Petyr Baelish is dead and Harry Hardyng as well, and Sansa smiles like a girl with a secret. “You know, I’ve always wanted to do this with you,” Sansa says. “Braid your hair, I mean. You have such lovely hair.” Her fingers begin to work, twisting and turning strands of hair over and under and over and under.

“It’s not as lovely as yours,” Arya says stubbornly. “Everyone says your hair is beautiful. Especially in firelight – it makes it look alive. Like fire. Like mother’s.”

“Well, it’s no fun if I braid my own hair, is it?” Sansa laughs again, this time genuinely. “I wonder if Mother and Aunt Lyanna ever met sometimes.”

“If they looked like us? If they got along better than we did?”

“Probably not.” Arya turns around to see Sansa smile, brilliant and beautiful. She gestures to the mirror, where Arya’s reflection stares back, her hair masterfully plaited in the Northern style. “They weren’t sisters, you know.”

+

“Margaery says that Sansa and Aegon might be betrothed,” she tells Jon in his solar, where he is poring over reports from Northern bannermen.

“She would be Queen,” says Jon, his expression blank as it always is. “Like she wanted.”

“She would be a queen,” Arya says stubbornly. “In the north.”

“ _Arya_.”

“You don’t want the North, Jon, you never did!” Arya yells.

“Robb wanted me to want the North.” Jon looks crestfallen. “I’m sorry.”

Arya sits down next to him. “I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“I know.” Jon smiles at her, looking for all the world fourteen again. “I want Sansa to inherit the North, too. But if she did go back to the north and rule it in all but name, she would wither away – titleless, husbandless. Is that the life you’d want for her?”

“I think you’d do a good job,” Arya says after a while. “When I – when I heard you’d become Lord Commander, I felt the same, too.”

Jon laughs. “That’s not a very good feeling, is it?”

“But you did do a good job!” Arya insists. “Everyone else just…didn’t.”

“That’s a very black and white way to look at the world, Arya,” Jon says, ruffling her hair. “We both made mistakes. But I’m glad – that such an Arya thing to say, isn’t it?”

Arya laughs too, and bites her lower lip. “Thanks, Jon.” A pause. “I missed you the most.”

“Thanks, Arya. I missed you too.”

“Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I promise.”

 


End file.
